Raptor's Bane
by Redtail53
Summary: "Ever since he was four, he'd noticed gaps in his memory. Unexplained holes in the passage of time." AU!Movie/Comic. Clintasha in later chapters if you squint. Phil/Clint brotherhood. Full summary in prologue.
1. PROLOGUE

**RAPTOR'S BANE**

"_Ever since he was four, he'd noticed gaps in his memory. Unexplained holes in the passage of time. He would wake in a panic, not even sure of why he was so worked up. Nearly 20 years later, the truth starts to come to light, but it only leaves Clint Barton with more questions than before. Determined to find the answers amid changes he wasn't prepared for, Clint finds his past._

_And all the demons with it."_

**PROLOGUE**

If someone asked him what it was like to be in the Circus, he wouldn't be able to tell you much. If someone asked why he'd joined, or how old he'd been, he wouldn't be able to tell you at all. He did know this: he wasn't born into it. He'd once had a family; a father he could never remember (and never seemed to want to), a mother whose voice and face where a distant (but fond) memory and a brother who he had looked up to, as any little brother would. Truthfully, it was only his brother's name that he could recall. Barney had always been there, up until the moment he wasn't. His young mind hadn't quite understood why he wasn't there, nor did he understand fully why his parents weren't there. As he grew older, he learned to hate his brother for leaving him – but that too faded into a naught but a memory. And his brother's name? That faded with time as well.

A person is the sum of their memories. Their experiences: their pain and their joy and all the emotions in-between, when tied to a memory, these make each person who they are. A reason for the type of person they are: what they do, how they act. True, much of this comes from an upbringing as well – but that's another story.

What happens when a person can't remember certain, important things in their lives?  
What then?

Clint Barton had always known about the gaps in his memory, unexplained holes in the passage of time. He would wake up to find that days had gone by, and he would never get a straight answer as to why. Oh yes, the clever and observant Hawk was well aware they were hiding things. He knew he wasn't crazy. But as time passed, he began to believe he was.

There was one time, though, that he woke differently from the other times. He didn't wake calmly, no fluttering of eyelids or some other such nonsense. He sprang up, hyperventilating, the effect of yet another memory that was very quickly fading. His panicked mind slowed as a gentle hand on his shoulder pushed him back down onto the soft mattress, the man's calm voice telling him he would be okay. He realized too late that he couldn't see and he was sore all over, and he asked what had happened. He didn't get any answers, but it wasn't because he was hiding things.

It would many years before he would ever get the long overdue answers.

**A/N**: Wordcount: 429  
Welcome to my personal headcanon. This is very AU, though it's based around the movie-verse, and has some twisted comic back story for Clint.

Updated: 2/2/13 – Fixed some wording, re-wrote the summary.


	2. CHAPTER ONE

**BOOK ONE: RAPTOR'S BANE****  
CHAPTER I**

_**November 20th, 2009**__ – Three years before the Battle of Manhattan  
_

_He was cold and shaking with terror.  
Bright lights above messed with his vision, blinding him. He could __feel__ people moving around; could __hear__ the cold metal objects clattering to equally cold metal tables – like the one he was laying on… no. Like the one he was __tied__ to. He pulled hard, groaning at the effort and pain of the metal cuffs cutting into his wrists.  
"Stop struggling Little Hawk," he froze, "This'll be over soon." A silhouette moved into his line of sight, the light was burning his eyes, and he welcomed the darkness. The man's image cleared, but his face was still obscured by a dirty surgical mask. He panicked as a scalpel was brought towards his chest._

Clint Barton woke with a start, sitting up in his bed, on the verge of a panic attack and most definitely hyperventilating. He moved his legs out from under the sheets as he rubbed his chest, feeling the scar tissue that ran from his collarbone to his navel. He took a deep breath and let his feet touch the carpet; he braced his hands on the mattress as he focused on controlling his breathing. He had just taken a deep and steadying breath, when his cell phone lit up (painfully, and he snapped his eyes closed) and vibrated twice. He reached over and turned on the lamp, wincing again at brightness of the light. He could tell today would not be a good day for his eyes. Once his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the light, he reached for his phone and unlocked the screen, noting the time _(2:30 AM)_ before checking the notifications. One text message, from Phil Coulson.

He sighed and tapped once on the message, which he noted was addressed to both him and Natasha _(she would be a joy to work with today)_ and read the quickly typed message. He sighed, thinking mildly that at least Phil had good timing. He would be able to sleep the rest of the night anyway. Clint locked his phone and let his hands rest in his lap, what had he dreamt about? He frowned deeply, finding that he couldn't remember. Had he been frightened for some reason? Of what?

He shook his head, he knew the dream had been of his past, but that was the most frustrating thing about all of this. The one thing he couldn't remember, yet he dreamed about it, and he still could not remember it. It was like… trying to pick up a sewing needle with thick working gloves. It was difficult, if not freaking impossible. And positively infuriating.

He sighed deeply, it didn't matter now. Right now, he had a mission. Annnnd he had to find a clean uniform. He looked around his messy apartment, and sighed in a long-suffering manner. He really did need to clean up around the place.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The dust was quickly turned to mud as the rain saturated the ground and air. He was soaked from head to toe and he knew his partner was in the same state. The steady rain became a downpour as the heavens opened up and let loose. Water ran into his eyes making it hard to see, and the head of his arrow glinted in the moonlight as he took aim. He exhaled as his fingers twitched and the arrow flew, nailing a poor drug runner to the wall by his jacket. Clint sighed and watched as his partner knocked out the criminal and let him hang by Clint's arrow which soon gave out under the stress of the man's weight and landed him in the thick mud. That had been the last one. He scanned the area, the headlights of the escapees' vehicles fading in the rain soaked night. He barely listened to his comm spring to life as Natasha called in the SHIELD agents waiting to clean up the mess.

To an outsider, it would have seemed like a mission well done, but Clint knew better; Natasha knew better. The entire op had been botched from the start. Bad Intel mixed with bad weather. Hand-to-hand was near impossible in the thick and slushy mud, which was why Clint had opted to aid Natasha from a higher vantage point. He took them out or slowed them down and she would finish the job. They had captured six in total, but many more had escaped - including the cartel leader. He lowered his bow and watched as SHIELD aircraft landed to take the remaining drugs and captured dealers away. He glanced over his shoulder as he felt more than heard Natasha come up behind him. They couldn't really sneak up on each other anymore, over eight years as partners had that effect.

"You look like a drowned rat."  
He replied with equal cynicism, "Thanks."  
Natasha came to stand by his side and watched the army of SHIELD agents load the dope and prisoners up. Now that the area was completely lit, Natasha could see the man that Clint had nailed to the wall being retrieved and Clint's arrow being pulled from the unfortunate man's jacket. "That was a nice shot," she said, as the man was dragged through the mud. Neither agent looked at each other as Natasha continued, "Didn't even draw blood." Clint's eyebrow twitched upward at this. He had expected some blood to be drawn from the broadhead. "More impressive: there were no lights and no moon. I could barely see my hand in front of my face. And you nailed him from here."  
He could have sworn there was more light, but the moon was new… Clint shrugged a bit, "Maybe I'm just that good," he suggested, deflecting because he didn't have an answer for her.

Natasha studied him for a moment before he turned to head back to ground level. He called over his shoulder, "We'd better go. Don't wanna miss our ride." She followed him and the doubt lingered in her mind. No one was that good. Not even Hawkeye, who never missed.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"The Mutant Registration Act continues to draw support from many Parents Rights groups who feel threatened by unidentified mutants in their schools." Clint watched the news with mild indifference. The idea of Mutants hadn't really surprised him; he'd seen some crazy stuff and even stranger people – both while working with SHIELD and while at the Carnival… mostly while at the Carnival. He figured at least eighty percent of those people had to be Mutants.

With a sigh, he rose from his couch which resided in the sitting room of his modest apartment. Sure, with his ridicules paycheck, he could have anything, or live anywhere he wanted or ever dreamed. For him, though, a small apartment smack in the center of New York. Having a lavish home or other various wants would be a bit pointless since he would be off on the other side of the planet most the time. He trudged toward what passed as a kitchen while draining the rest of the water from his glass. He sat the glass in the sink as he passed through and looked at his watch: 12:03  
The numbers glared at him, daring him to sleep at three minutes past noon. He wasn't normally the kind of guy to take naps, but it was sounding very tempting. He was still feeling weary from his last mission, and he swore he was still soaked to the bone. _Drowned rat. Thanks, Tasha._

Clint headed for the couch, flopped down and sprawled out, one foot dangling over the edge and the other propped up on the arm. He put an arm behind his head and looked at the medium sized flat screen. TMZ reporters were now handing out the latest celebrity news like candy; currently something about Tony Stark and the last party he was at - nothing new, really. Stark went to a lot of parties. He idly wondered how these people kept up with him, and then wondered how anyone could REALLY care.

He closed his eyes and tuned out the sound from the TV.  
Yeah. A quick nap wouldn't hurt.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.  
He groaned at the buzzing and vibration coming from his pocket, and instantly regretted leaving his phone on. He was just about asleep, right at the middle ground between consciousness and blissful sleep. He deserved it after scrambling in the mud for two months.

But, he knew he couldn't just turn his phone off; it was his only form of communication; he had no land line, no point in paying the bill if you're never there to answer it. He pulled the buzzing device from his pocket and checked the caller ID.

_Coulson_

He sighed and put the phone to his ear, "Barton."  
_"You need to come in."_Seriously?_  
_"I just left." He had been there only an hour earlier.  
_"Fury's orders; don't keep him waiting, Barton."_ The line went dead and Clint allowed his hand to drop to the floor as he lay on the couch. So much for a relaxing afternoon, let alone a short nap.

He rose from the couch with a single thought: _If this is another mission, so help me god…._

0o0o0o0o0o0

Twenty minutes and two cabs later, Clint Barton arrived at SHIELD HQ. The hilariously calm reception area hid the regular hustle and bustle that Clint knew awaited him beyond the thick double doors at the end of the room. He nodded at the receptionist, who recognized him and alerted Fury that Agent Barton had arrived. He swiped his ID and provided an iris scan, to which the doors unlocked and allowed the agent to enter. When he'd first joined SHIELD, his senses had been immediately overwhelmed by all the action in this part of the building. Voices overlapping, people constantly moving around, and the few who were sitting still were making phone calls, checking on agents in the field, or tackling mountains of paperwork. Now, 13 years in his career, he was very used to it as he weaved his way through the hordes of Agents in the halls. Far too soon, the archer found himself outside Fury's office. He knocked twice then entered, fully aware that Fury had been told of his arrival. Clint entered and Fury met his gaze with a single eye, "Sit down."

He didn't argue as he shut the door behind him and sat in a chair in front of the Director. Clint now felt as if he'd been caught elbow deep in a cookie jar, and the vibe he was getting off Fury only reinforced this feeling. He'd always been good at reading people, it's what caused him to offer Romanoff a job instead of an arrow in her heart. Fury tossed a file and it landed with a solid slap on Fury's desk in front of Barton. "Explain this to me, Agent Barton," Nick Fury leaned back in his chair nonchalantly waiting on Barton to open the file. Which he did, albeit cautiously, unsure of what could possibly be in the file. The label informed him that it was his medical file. Could this be results of the 'random' physicals that had been required of all SHEILD agents a few weeks back? SHIELD never did anything 'random' or without reason, or 'Oh, we felt like it.'  
He fingered the file before picking up it and opening it to read.  
Pft. Read. Right.  
He didn't understand half the information or various abbreviations that obviously mean something, but he had no clue what. A few things he was familiar with: blood pressure, heart rate, the typical vital signs. All looked good to him. Blood pressure was a bit high, but it was a well-known fact among the medical personnel that Clint hated needles, which were required for the blood test that they always insisted on doing last because of his (ahem) fear of said pointy object. The reason for the phobia was unknown, but it was there; and never failed to make heart beat just a bit faster. It only became a problem when that needle was brought anywhere near his face. He'd punched a nurse several years back, and it would have been funny if Fury hadn't lived up to his name that day.

One section of the report caught his eye and he read it again. His heart began to beat a bit faster, and he swallowed down the sinking feeling in his gut. He read it again. And again, but, alas the letters didn't change or erase completely.

_**X-GENE**__: Positive_

Clint stared at the words before he found his voice, "I… I don't understand." He understood the meaning behind the words; that he'd tested positive for the Mutant X-Gene. But he… he wasn't…. a Mutant? He furrowed his brows in thought; all he had was his keen eye sight, but that wasn't anything special, was it? Some people's eyesight was just better than others. He brought his eyes to look at Fury, who was looking back at his Agent – concern seemed to be lacing his features, but Clint couldn't really be sure. Reading Nick Fury was often like reading a book with invisible ink. You can manage it; it just takes a bit more effort.

Clint didn't bother to hide the confusion on his face. He wasn't a Mutant. He couldn't be. Why would he be? What makes him so special? Fury sighed to himself, quietly judging his Agent by the genuine confusion on his face.

"The test was ran several times," Clint let the file sit on the desk as Fury spoke, "All came back positive."  
"What now?" Clint looked at Fury. Clint was well aware of the rules regarding Mutants. They simply were not allowed to be a part of SHIELD. The Council considered them 'unpredictable liabilities.' Fury sat back in his chair, "You mention this to no one. "  
Barton sat up a bit, "I thought," he paused, finding it strange to refer to himself as a Mutant, "Mutants weren't supposed to be a part of SHIELD."  
"They aren't, but some have slipped in. Their mutations so invisible no one thought to check." Clint raised his eyebrow at this. SHIELD checked everything, the Agents here had next to no secrets left to hide. "I've never been a believer that Mutants should be banned from SHIELD, Barton. I've never enforced the rule if I can get away with it." The Council would not be pleased to discover that. Clint breathed in. "We found six Mutants, not including you." He looked up at his one-eyed boss. Seven Mutants managed to slip into the greatest information agency in the world? Granted, one didn't know he was a Mutant, and yet he somehow still thought it was a stroke of luck that he had been the youngest person ever recruited into SHIELD?

Clint once again caught himself wondering what made him so special.

"Does Coulson know?" Present tense because how could Phil have known if Fury was just finding out.  
"Yes."  
"Natasha?"  
"Up to you to tell her, and that would be only person you'd be permitted to tell. Doctor Barnes is already aware as he handled the blood tests."  
'Awesome,' he thought. He needed to talk to Phil first. He needed answers to his ever growing list of questions. Fury, seeing no point in further keeping Barton, told him to figure out what he could do (though Nick had a good guess) and to report back before dismissing him from his office. Clint tried not to look like he was in hurry to leave, but that room was suddenly very cramped and the halls of SHIELD HQ weren't any better. He needed air. He needed the sky above his head and the world below his feet, and it wasn't long before Clint found himself perched precariously on the parapet that surrounded the highest roof of SHIELD's building. His knees drawn up to his chest, arms on his knees and chin rested on his arms.

The New York skyline greeted him and the sounds of traffic and people below melded into a symphony of music. He could finally breathe, and try to wrap his head around all… this. He still had questions, lots and lots of questions, but they could wait for him to gather his wits again.

He had no idea how long he'd been up there, and he'd barely noticed the light fading into the darkness of dusk. His head twitched ever so slightly at the sound of footsteps on the gravel covered roof behind him.

Coulson came at sat on the low wall, back facing the city so he could see Clint's face. He was silent, content to let Clint start the conversation. Which he did, sooner than expected, "Did you know?"  
Phil looked at him fully, the young man was watching him - grey, blue and green eyes staring intently at him, waiting. Phil heard the unspoken parts of the question, as Clint knew he would. 'Did you know I was a Mutant when you found me?'  
"No," he paused, and Clint watched him still, sensing that the older man wasn't done, "I suspected though." Clint sat up at this, and put his legs down to hang off the side of the building. "What?" Confusion came off him in waves, and Phil held his gaze. "When I found you, you were blind and beaten. Your eyes so badly damaged that no one could have healed. At yet you did." Barton's gaze shifted to the city again as he listened. "Not very quickly, but you did heal. The doctor's called it a miracle, but I knew there was something about you." So what did that mean?

Clint looked at Phil, "So, what do you think?" What can I do? What makes me so special?  
His Handler smiled at him, reassuring him, "I think you may have a Healing Factor. I also think your eyesight can be classified as 'meta-human.'"  
"Some people's eyesight is just better than others."  
"How far out can you see?" Clint looked at him, questioning. "Go on. Look. Find the smallest thing you can see from here." Clint sighed softly but looked out to the city. He looked down first. The people looked like ants and the cars looked my beetles, but he had a feeling that wasn't small enough. He saw kid selling newspapers on a street corner. He focused on the paper, and read aloud part of the article. Something about the Mutant Registration Act, _(that seemed to taking up all the news recently; it made Clint nervous)_ and Coulson recognized the excerpt. He knew Clint didn't get the paper, nor did he care about the news on a whole, but he found it interesting that Clint had picked that line out of the entire front page.  
Wait. "Where did you read that?"  
Clint swallowed, "Kid selling papers on the corner." He point vaguely in the direction of the kid, and Coulson looked. He knew were the kid was, saw him every day. "Clint. That's over a mile away." He would have needed binoculars to actually see the kid instead of having a vague idea of where he was, let alone actually _read_ it. A feat which even binoculars wouldn't have helped him achieve.

Coulson looked at Clint, and Clint looked back. He knew his eyes would something else, but he had no idea they were that good.

"So… a mutation then."  
Phil only took a breath and nodded slightly. He knew, as well as Clint, that no one's eyesight was _that_ good.

"_So you found out today, your life's not the same  
Not quite as perfect as it was yesterday but  
When you were just getting in the groove  
Now you're faced with something new"  
_-No Giving Up by Crossfade

**A/N: **Updated this chapter on 2/2/13. Added a few hundred words to the beginning of this chapter. Took this chapter from 2,784 words to 3,263 words.  
As of 2009, these are the ages for the three main characters in this story.  
Clint, aged: 31  
Natasha, aged: 25  
Phil, aged: 46


	3. CHAPTER TWO

**CHAPTER II**

Clint Barton, who was usually the picture and embodiment of bored to death patience, was slouched so far in his chair, Coulson feared he would slip out at any moment. His head was being supported by his left hand, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm near his temple. To passers-by he looked bored and possibly half-asleep.

But Phil Coulson knew better.

He was nervous. If Clint was tapping with his right hand, it would mean something else, but the fingers he was tapping out with were his string-fingers; the first three fingers that held the bow string and arrow when drawing. His eyes were darting in every direction, as if he wasn't sure where he wanted to look. Phil peaked at Clint over the file he was reading, pleased that the young man was still sitting in his chair at all.

He went back to the file, only to sense something amiss, but he didn't look up.

"Sit down." He heard a sigh and the sound of a body falling back down into the chair. He'd tried running three times now, and Phil had predicted that Clint would try more. He hated Medical for various reasons, the most withstanding reasons being his PTSD triggers all happened to have something to do with medical practices or tools.

The biggest of the lot, however, was the reason they were sitting here to begin with. Since he'd been discovered and confirmed as a mutant, Fury ordered that they find out exactly what he was capable of and what his limitations were. As Phil had suspected, his eyesight was far from the human norm, as was evidenced last night on the roof. Besides having orders, he was curious just how good Clint's eyesight was, though finding out would prove to be a chore since he had to keep Clint calm and non-violent during the exam.

"Sit," This time Phil looked at Clint, who was half out of his chair, ready to attempt another break for it. The archer glared at Phil, a look that would make lesser men run and/or need and change of pants. He'd clearly been taking lessons from Natasha and improved his already intense hawk's glare to be even more intense and threatening. But Phil, you see, Phil Coulson was immune. Because he knew Clint Barton, and right now, Clint Barton was afraid and nervous, and he wanted out fast. Phil folded the file and uncrossed his legs as Clint sat down, this time rested his head in both hands and sighing deeply, desperately trying to get a hold of his emotions.

Phil saw Harry, Clint's doctor, approach from the far end of the hall, looking rushed. Another agent had been brought in from a mission gone sour, and he'd needed to stabilize him before seeing Clint. He put a hand on Clint's shoulder and spoke quietly, "The sooner you calm down, the sooner we get done with this, the sooner you can work off your nervous energy." Clint swallowed and spoke, his voice slightly muffled by the angle of his head and quiet enough that Phil had to strain to hear him, "I'm trying, Phil."

Phil put up his hand and gave Harry a pointed look to hang back a bit before kneeling in front of Clint. Right now, this wasn't Hawkeye the master Archer and Assassin, nor was it Clint Barton, the smart-mouthed punk. This was Clint Barton: the child with a horrible past that fate was either kind enough to let him not remember, or cruel enough to leave him with nothing but questions to his past and little to no satisfying answers.

Phil found out early on, even before the young archer joined SHIELD, that he had to adapt to these different facets of his personality accordingly. Right now, Clint needed to be reassured that he would be okay, that he wouldn't be hurt, and that it would all be over soon. "You know that Harry won't do anything that will hurt you or your eyes. And I'll be there, I'm not going anywhere." He waited a moment longer after Clint nodded once, agreeing with Phil, before speaking again, "Are you good?"

Clint sighed and rubbed his face, "I need to get over this, don't I?"  
It was his handler's turn to sigh, "You've done well over the years, Clint. You've improved a lot." Both knew that was true. When Clint had first been diagnosed, he was 15 and had broken a kid's nose and arm when the offending teenager put a pencil too close to Clint's eyes. He'd reacted instinctively and violently. Mary, Clint's foster mother, who was also a physiatrist for SHIELD way back when, noticed the signs and was able to get them confirmed with Harry Barnes: a jack of all trades Doctor of SHIELD.

After a year of therapy sessions, Clint had learned to fake, if not control the more violent urges when triggered. Now days, he could ignore it for a while, but too long and he wouldn't be able to handle it and he'd lock up and the flashbacks would start… followed by someone getting punched - usually the person to drag him out of the flashback in the moment between still being locked in his own mind and reality. It's only happened once since he'd joined SHIELD, a nurse brought a needle too close to his face and he flipped. It was always worse when more than one trigger was forced on him.

"Are you good?" Phil asked again, and Clint thought about it for a moment.  
"No," he answered finally and was inwardly proud of how strong and sure he'd been able to make his voice sound, "But it needs to be done." With that, Clint stood up, as did Phil. After searching the archer's eyes for a moment, Phil nodded at Doctor Barnes.

OoOoOoO

_The fear and pain were insurmountable to the point that Clint's mind was numb to everything but what was setting his nerves ablaze. As the source of the pain finally retreated, he breathed. His breath hitched and tears of blood cascaded from unseeing eyes and down along his cheeks, and further down close to his ears. He was so tired, and scared and in so much pain. He heard himself whimper, but he couldn't recall ordering his throat to conjure the sound._

_Voices were muffled all around him, like an undersea chorus of a thousand voices. But… he'd stopped caring about that they were saying. He didn't understand, and that was worst part.  
He didn't understand.  
Why were they doing this?_

_Anger flared up hot and sudden and mixed with the fear, and a familiar voice chose that moment to join in on the chorus. It called his name. Soothing, yet demanding obedience._

_The images around him shattered like glass and Clint reeled, flailing and grabbing at anything within his reach, fully intent on doing as much damage as possible. Strong hands gripped his wrists and he kicked out blindly, still oblivious to anything around him and he only knew that he was scared – well and truly frightened, but he couldn't remember__**why**__._

"BARTON!"

He froze and blinked at the command. His breaths came quick and unsteady, on the verge of hyperventilation. Phil's face appeared in his vision as the blackness flowed away. "Slow your breathing," Doctor Barnes said from behind him and he noticed the doctor's hands on his shoulders, "Slow… down…" Clint made an effort to do so, and to force his mind to calm down. Five minutes passed before Clint could breathe normally. Flash backs like this were nothing new to Clint, and it was the same each time: he'd relive a horrible moment in his past, and then forget it as soon as reality started bleeding through. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then he looked around and found Phil's face, faint worry etched into the lines on his brow, a silent question on his lips and Clint nodded, still reeling from the force of this episode.

Harry's hands had long left Clint's shoulders and he now sat in a rolling chair across from Phil and watching Clint with nearly the same expression on his face. "What did you see?" Clint breathed deep, trying to pull the memory from the depths of his damaged mind… with no luck. He looked at them and shook his head, "Nothing… I…" he sighed and put his hands in his head and rubbed his face before looking around him more fully, trying to jog his memory of events before he blacked out.

He looked up as Harry stood and rested a hand on his shoulder, "We'll pick this back up tomorrow. Give you time to settle down." With no other choice, Clint nodded and bolted forward toward the door of the optical exam room. He could hear Phil's steps behind him, but was more focused on putting as much distance between him and that room as possible, "Barton." Clint's hurried steps only seemed to pick up pace, "Clint. Clint!" He stopped, breathing heavy but not from the brisk walk, "Slow down. Wherever you want to go, we'll go, but you need to slow down." He watched the younger man for a moment, "Ok? …where do you want to go?"

Clint was silent for a moment. This time of day, the gym was busy, the range was busy, the roof was freezing, so either his, or Nat's room, or Phil's office seemed available and free of… other people. People who didn't need to witness Hawkeye falling apart and trying to get a grip on himself. He let his feet carry him, at a much slower pace this time…

…right to Natasha's quarters.

Clint nocked once on the metal door, and Natasha cracked it open, and then opened it fully upon seeing Phil and her partner… her very disgruntled partner. She stepped back to let them in, "What happened?" she asked as she shut and locked the door. Clint flopped onto the sorry excuse of a couch and placed his arm over his eyes, blocking out the light of the room. Nat gave Phil a meaningful look and he moved a chair close to Clint. "He… had another episode," he stated as he sat down.  
"Oh…." Nat sat down on her bed, "How bad?" She, of course, knew what Phil was referring to. Clint had only had a few panic attacks of this sort during their partnership, but the nightmares were much more plentiful. And when you spend months on end in each other's personal space, some things are hard to ignore. It was only recently that Clint had told her about his… issues, and she made sure to be careful of his triggers over the years. It was only a few times that she'd been the one to set her off, and for all her detachment and keeping everyone at arm's length, it hurt when he was reacting to her actions.

Not that she'd ever say that.

Phil looked at Clint and sighed quietly, "Are you going to tell her, or should I?" The archer remained motionless for a moment before breathing deeply and sitting up on the couch. He sighed as rubbed his face, feeling totally emotionally drained, "I'll tell her."

Natasha watched her partner carefully, noting the lines around his eyes and the creases in his forehead that told her his current mental state. It was only off the field that he was this open… or when he simply didn't care anymore. He cleared his throat, stalling as he tried to find a way to explain things to his partner. It wasn't so much that he was… worried about her reaction. It was that he... really didn't know how to explain it. That, and saying it out loud was akin to _accepting_ it… and he hadn't even come close.

He sighed and look at her, green eyes met grey and he took a breath, "You know the physicals that Fury ordered on everyone?" She nodded as she'd been required to have the tests done as well. "Turns out the Council is trying to find something."  
"What?"  
Clint swallowed and cast his eyes elsewhere, "Mutants."  
"I thought Mutants weren't permitted to be part of SHIELD."  
"They aren't," Phil answered, and looked at Clint, "Some managed to slip through."

Clint could feel Nat's eyes on him, burning into his soul, "You?" He flinched slightly at her tone and he looked up at her quickly. Her face was impassive, but her eyes told him she was angry, barely concealed anger boiled in her green eyes, "I didn't know, Nat. I swear."  
"How do you not know, you're a Mutant?"  
He flinched again. Perhaps he should have been worried about her reaction… "I didn't know till yesterday."  
Phil stepped in before it got messy, "He didn't, Natasha." She turned her gaze on Phil who looked completely unfazed by it, he'd gotten the look form both agents too many times for it to have any effect anymore. "His," the older agent glanced at Clint, "Mutation is such that no one including him knew about it."

Natasha took a good long look at her partner, and he stared back. "You're a Mutant." He nodded once. "I've never seen evidence of any special… powers."  
Clint looked sheepish for a moment, "Actually… you did. You do, probably every mission." He could swear he felt her confusion and surprise, even though none of it showed on her face.  
"What…?" Clint watched her carefully, and she looked at him, "The last mission. You were shooting in almost complete darkness."  
Clint nodded and looked down at his boots for a moment, "I could see just fine. I mean…. kinda grayscale, but I'd never thought anything of it." He leaned on his elbows, "Never had a reason."

Natasha seemed to take a moment to process the information she was gathering, "So…. you're a Mutant, you didn't know. And you can see in the dark…." She looked at the men before her, "Anything else?"  
Phil shifted forward to match Clint's pose, "That was we were trying to figure out. Fury ordered tests to be done, to find out his limits – what he can do."  
"Wait," Nat said and looked at Clint, "Your 'enhancements,' are they really mutations?" Clint looked at Phil, not really sure of the answer, "No," Phil said, "There were traces of chemicals in his body. We never thought to look for the X-gene; Mutants weren't as widely known – or worried about back then. Most people thought it was a hoax or conspiracy theory."

Natasha nodded; she understood the message that her partner had been experimented on… like the Red Room had done to her. She really only knew of his enhancements because she'd read his file (they'd never talked about it). That had been the first thing she'd done the moment she had clearance to do so. The alterations to his heart and lungs gave him more endurance and stamina than she had on a good day. The alteration to his muscular structure… was never completed – thus it gave him 40 percent more strength in his upper body, and 20 percent more in his lower body; still higher than the human norms. She wasn't sure why the changes hadn't been completed, but it was sort of a good thing he chose archery to excel in.

"Do we know what the tests came up with?" She asked, and Clint shook his head.  
"No. He wants to do more tomorrow."  
Natasha felt for him, when she'd first arrived, they'd wanted to do so many tests she'd finally broken down (quite violently), and Clint had to tell them all off.

Clint sighed and shook his head, "I'm gonna go lay down." He felt so drained and exhaustion was creeping toward him, bribing him into blissful rest. The other agents nodded and he showed himself out of Nat's room, trudging tiredly to his own and few doors away. He glanced down at his watch, noting that it was still early – but he was so tired. After his episode in Medical, he deserved a bit of shut-eye, right? Not even bothering to turn on the lights after he'd entered his room, nor change his clothes or even remove his boots; he flopped on the bunk face down and wondered briefly why he found it so much easier to sleep during the day. Before he could examine this question, his mind shut the world out and sleep enveloped him.

**A/N**: did this chapter seem to drag on to you? I'm sorry, but kind of an important chapter – even if it may not seem like it just yet.

2,761 words.


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